Alone
by MillyVeil
Summary: Five time Clint Barton was alone, and one time he wasn't. [Mission fic, alcohol, child predators, underage prostitution, illness, injury, post-Loki]
1. Chapter 1

Clint hates Alabama with a goddamn passion.

He hates the heat, the humidity, the people, the permeating smell of deep-fried everything. He hates the Crimson fucking Tide. God, he even hates the state flag. And most of all he hates that this is the place he's stuck in, when all he wants is to take off and go far, far away and never look back. He doesn't want to be anywhere right now.

But here he is. Ala-fucking-bama.

The pyramid of overturned shot glasses is getting precariously tall in front of him, but he's nowhere near drunk enough to stop drinking, and if he goes back to the motel room they're shacked up in until they're flying back to D.C. in the morning, there's a more than good chance he'll put Kline's head through the drywall, and he doesn't think Coulson was lying when he told Clint a few weeks ago to rein it in or pack his stuff. The guy doesn't say things like that without meaning them.

Clint props his chin on his hand and watches the colorless liquid slosh up the sides of the shot glass as he twirls it around. The glass doesn't look too clean. Then again, nothing in this place looks clean. The floor is cracked and gritty with dirt, the tables are worn, pockmarked with cigarette burns and scratches that look like knife marks. The dingy bathroom had smelled like piss and rancid sewers, and Clint is pretty sure the guy in the single stall had been banging one of the aging hookers who have been trolling the bar all night long. Jesus fuck. Clint shakes his head. He has done some pretty questionable things in his days, but even he wouldn't go with someone who looks like she's been shooting meth for decades and seen more traffic that the I-95. He gives the glass another twirl, but manages to tilt it a little too much. Shit. He sits up abruptly as the liquor spills over the bar counter and down the front of his pants.

Clint glares at the glass, then flips it over and places it at the top of his skewed glass pyramid. It's getting late, almost closing time, but business doesn't show any signs of slowing down in the bar. The clientele is a varied assortment of losers, most of them firmly belonging to the underbelly of society. Wannabe 1-percenters, white trash, truckers looking for a blowjob and a ten-buck fuck, all of them mixing with a fine selection of the terminally stupid.

Something breaks behind him, and his eyes flick to the full-length mirror hiding behind the liquor bottles at the bar, but no one in the room seems to be gearing up to a fight, and the rowdy laughter tells him someone probably passed out and fell over over. He turns his attention back to his glass tower and carefully disassembles it, lines the glasses up in a circle on the counter before starting to re-stack them in a different configuration. He's almost done when he manages to knock it over and has to start again.

He usually drinks with Natasha, but she left a few hours ago. She had been packing up when he got back from his food run. Another job. Europe. Solo. Dont do anything stupid, had been her parting words. Clint had stood in the small room with the white Styrofoam containers in hand and watched the door close behind her. He wonders if the hint of relief in her eyes had been born from the prospect of getting out of this place, or if it had been relief over not having to deal with him in this mood. It's probably both.

He knows Natasha doesn't process things like he does, after almost a year he's learned that much about his partner, and he doesn't really want her to change, not really, but every now and again he wishes she was someone who understood and shared nights like these with him, nights when the memory of failure presses down on him, when it's easier to stop breathing than to stop second-guessing every move he did during the op. It's not that he wants to _talk_ about it, he doesn't, not with Natasha, not with Coulson, not with the appointed shrinks they sometimes send him to, it's just that… every now and again he would like someone to suffer together with. Misery loves company and all that. He's a very selfish man.

He knows she's not uncaring as such, not indifferent to the kind of collateral damage they try their best to avoid, but that inevitably follows in their footsteps, she's just better at compartmentalizing than he is. She wraps it up faster and more securely than he can. That doesn't mean she doesn't have ghosts, but where he collects new ones as months and years pass by, hers are static and well-known, old and pale with age. Coulson has his fair share of ghosts, no doubt, because a person is bound to collect some baggage on the field, and Clint knows that most rumors about Coulson's time as an operative carries at least a kernel of truth. He might look like an accountant in an expensive suit, but there is steel underneath, hardened over the years as an Army Ranger and an operative for Shield. But Coulson isn't like any of the men Clint has known who call themselves leaders. What Clint at first had mistaken for meekness is anything but, and what had seemed like mediocrity in thought and ambition had proven to hide a strategic mind so sharp it makes Clint want to swoon sometimes. There's patience there, too. Not for sloppiness and stupidity, but for mistakes and for learning curves, and if Coulson had been here, he would probably have cut Clint off long ago, he would have taken him to the motel and told Klein to get another room. He would have stayed to make sure Clint got into bed, and probably placed the waste basket on the floor next to the bed along with a glass of water on the bed table.

Clint gives himself a mental cuff over the head. No. Coulson wouldn't do that. It's what Clint _wishes_ Coulson would do for him. It's Coulson's own fault for putting those kinds of ideas in Clint's head, for taking care of him that time in Berlin when he'd been hellbent on drinking himself into unconsciousness. Clint knows better than to expect it to happen again. It was a one-time thing. The guy is his handler, not his mother, not his friend. His handler. He manages to knock over his glass tower again, and one of the shot glasses rolls off the counter. It disappears behind the bar and Clint leans over the bar as far as he can, but can't see it among the bottles and ice and other glasses back there. He catches the bartender's eye and gestures for another one.

The bartender comes over. "I think you've had enough," he tells Clint and starts collecting the empty glasses.

"I've had nowhere near enough."

"Go home. Get some sleep. Whatever it is will look a lot brighter in the morning."

No it won't.

"Listen," the bartender says and leans against the counter. "I know things can—"

"You don't know shit," Clint snarls, because he's suddenly angry at this man who has never seen the side of someone's head blown away, never seen a hand sticking out from under tons of jagged rubble, never seen the wedding ring on her finger painted red with blood. Never known that she had been leading a little boy by the hand.

The bartender straightens up, but he doesn't look all that offended. "Want me to call a cab for you?"

No. Clint wants him to fuck off and tells him as much. He tries to remember how many shots he's had, then gives up and tosses the guy all the cash he has in his wallet. It's probably close to sixty bucks, but fuck it, he's out of here, he'll go find some other place with a less conscientious do-gooder behind the bar. He stumbles over the barstool as he gets to his feet, and has to grab the bar counter to keep from falling. Then someone bumps into him and the bar counter isn't enough. He ends up on his hands and knees on the floor just as someone leans away from the bar counter and throws up right in front of him. It splatters on his hands and up his arms, and god, warm and gross, and Clint's head spins too much to get to his feet.

The guy laughs drunkenly at the mess he made, laughs at Clint, and his asshole friends join in. Clint makes it to his knees, then his feet. He gets a very intentional shoulder shove as he makes his way past them, and he sees the desire for a fight in their eyes as he knocks into one of them.

Clint hates Alabama.


	2. Chapter 2

Colored lights blink and move and spin against the dark sky. They're white and red and blue and green and gold, and Clint feels like he's been spinning around, fast, fast, fast, when he tries to follow them with his eyes. Barney is at the rifle shooting booth, sighting at the ducks with the peeling bull's eyes painted on them. They shouldn't be out this late. Mommy will be worried, and if Dad was home… well, if Dad was home they wouldn't be out this late. But he's not, so when Barney had told Clint he was sneaking into the fairgrounds, Clint had begged and begged and begged, until his brother had reluctantly agreed he could come. Clint had gotten his piggybank down from the top shelf and snuck a table knife from the kitchen. He had slid the blade smoothly into the coin opening and wiggled it until the coins fell out.

He'd been saving since summer, since he saw that bike in the store in town. Billy has one almost like it, but he never lets Clint ride it. When Clint had shown Barney how much he had saved up, his brother had laughed said it wasn't anywhere near enough to buy a bike, and that Clint would be _super_ old before he could afford one at that rate. Clint fingers the coins in his pocket and decides he doesn't want a bike, anyway. Bikes are stupid, and they always run, anyway, always race each other everywhere they go, even though Clint's legs are shorter than Barney's and he always loses.

"Barney," he calls over the din. "I wanna go see the goldfishes."

"So go," his brother says as he raises the rifle and aims. He pulls the trigger and Clint is relieved when the rifle doesn't say boom. It says ' _chink_ ' and one of the ducks falls backwards.

Clint looks down the row of booths, then back at Barney, who has reloaded the rifle and is sighting again. "Promise you won't leave without me."

' _Chink_ '

The duck stays upright.

"Promise," Clint presses.

"Yes, fine! I promise. Now get lost, you're making me miss."

Clint heads down towards the booth with the small plastic bags of goldfish hanging from a rod. The carousels squeak and rattle on each side. The lines to the rides are long, and the people already riding are shouting and shrieking and laughing, and Clint thinks he would just laugh, he wouldn't scream, he'd be brave. Like Barney. He's never afraid. Not of stupid things like Clint is sometimes afraid of, anyway.

He spots a girl walking next to a man and a woman, and she's eating cotton candy. Clint feels his mouth water. He thinks he has enough money for that, and he' hasn't had cotton candy in so long, so he slips between people to the cotton candy stand and waits patiently in line. The man at the stand has to lean over his counter to see Clint behind the soda cans and candy boxes. Clint gets pink cotton candy. For a moment he's dismayed, because pink is a girl's color. Everyone says so. But then he pulls a wad of soft, still-warm sweetness from the stick with his fingers and the color is forgotten, because it melts in his mouth and it's so damn great.

He looks around quickly, then realizes that he's not going to get into trouble for using a bad word, because he was just _thinking_ it. No one heard him say it. He smiles and thinks it again. Damn. Then he thinks Hell. And Shit. And Fuck (Clint knows that one is really bad, because mom got really angry when she heard Barney say it once). He looks around furtively and when no one seems to be paying attention to him he tries it out aloud, whispering it under his breath. He can't help giggling.

Down the lane there's a ride that looks like saucers that spin, and Clint stands there watching for a while. He remembers Barney being sick and throwing up after riding the old wobbly carousel down at the playground, and he would probably be sick if he rode this one, too. Clint had laughed at him, and Barney had gotten _so_ mad. He takes another pinch of cotton candy. He's licking his fingers to get rid of the stickiness when he gets a shove that makes him drop tumble to his knees.

"Watch it!" The older boy, even older than Barney, glares down at him. He's holding a soda can that's foaming over the edge, and his t-shirt has a dark, wet stain on the front.

"Sorry," Clint mumbles. He wants to point out that it wasn't his fault. He had just been standing still, it was the other one's fault for walking into him. But the boy is larger and looks angry, and Clint knows better than to talk back when faced with that combination. "Sorry," he says again.

But Clint's apology doesn't appease him, and the boy steps into Clint's space, grabs his jacket and pulls him up from the ground, pulls him up on his toes, and Clint's eyes flit towards the rifle stand, looking for Barney. Barney won't let anyone hit him. He's always saying that he's the only one who gets to hit him. He can't see Barney. He scans the people desperately, but Barney isn't at any of the rifle stations, and he isn't standing to the side watching other shooters. Where is he? Clint pulls at his jacket, trying to get out of the boy's hold, but the grip is strong. He swivels his head and looks all over. Where's Barney? He said he wasn't leaving! Clint starts struggling for real, and calls out for his brother, but the boy lifts his hand and Clint pulls his head down, tries to make himself as small as possible. Just as the downward swing of the hand begins, a sharp shout rings out and the boy looks up, startled. A moment later he's running, zigzagging between people, disappearing in the crowd.

For a moment Clint is sure it's Barney who has come to his rescue, but then a woman kneels next to him.

"Hey, sweetie." Her hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Clint just nods, his heart still in his mouth.

"Where are your parents? Little boys shouldn't roam around on their own in a place like this."

"Not on my own," he mumbles and brushes his palms against his jacket to get rid of the gravel and sand. They hurt and his eyes start to sting. He looks over at the rifle stand again. No Barney anywhere.

The woman leans closer. "Sorry?"

"I'm not on my own. I'm with my brother," he says louder.

"Where is your brother, then?" She brushes the dust of Clint's sleeve.

"I don't know," he says, and he feels his lower lip start to wobble. He bites down on it. Big boys don't cry.

"It's okay," she says. She points at the ground. "Is that your cotton candy?"

He sniffs and nods.

"Know what?" She gives him a reassuring smile. "I'll buy you another one, and then we'll go look for your brother. Sounds good?"

That _does_ sound good, so Clint nods again. Then, because it's rude not to answer, he says, "Yes. Thank you."

As they wait in line for the cotton candy she looks down at Clint. "What's your name, darling?"

"Clint."

She smiles warmly at him. "Such a sweet name." She pays for the cotton candy and hands it to him. "Nice to meet you, Clint."

The cotton candy is blue this time and she laughs with delight when he stuffs his whole mouth full. When he has eaten it all, she offers her hand for holding, and Clint takes it.

"I see my husband." She points further down the lane. "He'll help us look for your brother." She hurries through the crowd with him in tow. Clint holds on as best he can.

"Darling!" she calls. They come to a stop in front of a man. He's got what Dad calls hippie hair. Clint sees black dirt under his nails. Mommy always checks his and Barney's nails to make sure they're clean. "Look what I found," she says and runs a hand over Clint's hair. "He was wandering around all by himself."

Clint looks up, because her tone suddenly doesn't sound right. Her grip tightens, and he doesn't know why, but suddenly he wants to pull his hand away, wants to go find Barney on his own. But she bought him a new cone of cotton candy to replace the one he dropped, and Daddy always tells him to not be so ungrateful, so when she doesn't let go, he stops pulling.

"Isn't he precious," she purrs.

"Absolutely precious," the man agrees and takes Clint's other hand.

Clint glances up and sees them exchange a look over his head.

Their smiles make him think of shark teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint sweeps the small flashlight across the dark pharmacy, and there, all the way in the back, he spots what he's looking for. Climbing over the dispensing counter leaves him cold sweating and lightheaded with pain, and he has to grab the back of a chair when his knees threaten to buckle. He presses his arm tightly against his torn up side and tries to breathe through it. When he's reasonably sure he'll be able to move without falling over, he limps towards the back and the three metal cabinets he spotted there. A white sheet of paper in a plastic folder is attached to each one. Content lists, from the looks of it. Finnish is not one of the languages he speaks, but he hopes he'll find what he's looking for anyway, because medical words are similar in a whole host of languages, even the non-Germanic ones.

He runs a trembling finger down the list on the closest cabinet and strikes gold almost right away. Analgeetti/Oxi Kodeiini. The tries the handle, but as he suspected the cabinet is locked. He sticks the flashlight between his teeth, and fifteen seconds later the lock is history and he is rifling through bottles and boxes. His side screams at him to stop moving, to stop reaching for things, but he ignores it as well as he can. There. Oxy Codeine. He squints and tries to read the strength, but the text is too small for him to focus on. His hands itch to break the bottle open and chew a pill down right here, right now, but he knows that's a bad idea. He needs to be on his toes until he has found a place to go to ground for a while, where he can lick his wounds safely, so in the end he stuffs it in his pocket and goes back to the list to find the second thing on his shopping list.

Nothing in the first cabinet. Nothing in the second. Almost at the bottom of the list on the third cabinet he finds it. Anti-infektiiviset aineet/antibiootit. Amoxin. Ten to one that's a brand name for Amoxicillin. He rifles through the cabinet, not caring about the things that falls to the floor, because he needs to get out of here. The pharmacy is in a small town, in the middle of nowhere, and he thinks he managed to circumvent the alarm system, but silent alarms and accompanying security guards and law enforcement exist here too, and he would prefer not to have to run or fight someone right now.

He finds the right bottle and somehow manages to read the infuriatingly tiny print of the ingredient list. Amoxicillin. 750 mg. He swallows two pills dry, then stuffs the bottle in his pocket with the Oxy.

*' *' *'

The house hasn't been lived in for years. The roof sags and several windows have been smashed. The inside is adorned by tags and graffiti of varying quality, and underneath the permeating smell of damp lies a hint of decay, of something small that crawled in and died long ago.

In the front room an old couch has been dragged to the middle of the floor. Around it, plastic crates have been turned upside down for sitting. The place is littered with cigarette butts and beer cans and other assorted trash. A few half-burned candles sit in front of the couch, along with an old lantern. But there's a layer of dust coating everything and a sense of abandonment to the place that hopefully means the bored kids who at one point used it as a hang-out aren't coming back tonight.

Clint drops his gear and digs the pill bottles from his pocket. He puts the antibiotics back and concentrates on the painkillers. The child proof cap almost has him in tears before he manages to get it open. He shakes two pills out into his palm and contemplates chewing them down instead of swallowing them whole, because fuck the twelve hour time-release formula, he needs pain relief _now_ , his whole left side feels like it's on fire and every little move, every goddamn breath is excruciating. But he still can't make out the dosage and overdosing that way is easy, so he breaks a pill in two and crushes the smallest piece between his teeth, then drops the remaining part back into the bottle. Later, he promises himself. He can have the rest of it later. The pill is bitter and chalky on his tongue. He's been throwing up since this morning and hasn't been able to keep anything down, but hopefully the Codeine will act fast enough that he'll get some relief even if he pukes again.

A violent tremor goes through him and he groans as the tensing muscles aggravate his injured side. He stumbles to the nearest crate and slumps down on it. He reaches stiffly for the flashlight in his pocket and turns it on, then gingerly unzips his jacket and lifts his shirt with one hand. The jagged cut that runs a good five inches up his side is hidden under a dressing that has gone dark with blood again. Fuck. He must have reopened it when he climbed the counter. He gets his nails under the tape that holds the dressing in place and gingerly pulls it away from his skin. The bandage sticks a little to the pus and the blood, and he hisses through his teeth at the pain it causes.

The wound is puffy and red, the result of running into a couple of angry Russians the size of grizzlies along with a pile of rusty rebar. If the road from Murmansk hadn't been blocked by a car wreck as he was leaving he would have been just fine. They wound never have gotten their hands on him. He would have crossed into Finland in once piece, then made it to the Norweigian border and onwards to Narvik further south. Then it would have been a two hour commuter flight to Oslo and the international airport.

But there _was_ a car wreck and he _is_ stuck here, just barely on the right side of the Finnish border, cut up and sick, and there was never an extraction plan in place for him for this job, so he's on his own.

He lets the bandage fall back and pulls the jacket closed against the chill. He knows he should clean it and change it, because it is infected, and he _will_ , he just needs to rest a little. He turns the light on the sagging couch. It's stained and springs peek through the fabric where a cushion is missing in the middle. The rest all have rips, like someone took a knife at them at some point. It doesn't look at all inviting, but it will allow him to lie down.

Getting up from the crate is painful, as is rearranging the cushions and sitting down on the couch. He clenches his teeth as he lowers himself down on shaky arms. He places his Colt next to him on the couch and lets his head fall back against the backrest, closing his eyes and waiting for the Codeine to start blunting the edges of the pain that radiates from his side in lava-hot waves.

He's miles from the pharmacy, miles from any large road, and the night outside is silent except for the wind that rattles the windows around him in search for any little weakness to exploit. He wonders if anyone back home is missing him yet, then frowns at his own thought. He knows the answer is no, he hasn't missed any scheduled check-ins, so there's no reason for anyone to think something is wrong. He pulls the jacket closer around him, but starts shivering within minutes. It's as much the fever as it is the actual temperature of the air. The fact that his clothes are damp with sweat doesn't help, either. He has a spare shirt in his bag, but it's all the way there on the other side of the room, and no, he needs to rest a little while before he can even think about getting up and retrieving it.

The Codeine must have kicked in, because he drifts off. He wakes up, and the room is warmer, is lighter, and for a fuzzy moment he worries about that, about someone seeing the light from the outside. It's supposed to be an abandoned house, after all. Then he realizes that maybe _that_ shouldn't be his primary concern. His primary concern should be who the hell has turned on that light. He fumbles for his Colt.

"Relax, Barton. It's me." Natasha sits down on the armrest and pushes a fur-lined hood off her head. Her hair, backlit by the lantern that's burning on one of the crates, is a red halo around her head.

He blinks at her for a few moments. "Not that I don't appreciate the company, Romanoff, but aren't you supposed to be in Greece?" His voice comes out hoarse and raspy.

She unzips the down jacket and shakes it off her shoulders. "Wrapped up early. I was enjoying a very nice weekend in Rome when Coulson called and told me I needed to go rescue your sorry ass. Again." She gives him a shadow of a smile to take the edge off the words, then reaches over and puts her hand on his forehead. "You have a fever."

"Yeah." He motions stiffly at his side. "Got a little scratch. Just came back from a pharmacy run." He sees behind her that the ragged curtains left in the window by the last owner has been pulled shut, preventing the light from the lantern from showing outside. Good old Natasha.

"Did you pocket any fever reducers?"

Clint realizes that no, he didn't think to get any fever reducers, his foggy mind had been so firmly set on painkillers and antibiotics. Idiot. "How did you find me?" he asks instead of answering.

She snorts softly. "Please. You think one of us don't always know where you are?" She gets to her feet. "You look like you're about to keel over, so how about you lie down before that happens?" She helps him lift his feet off the ground and get into as much of a comfortable position as is possible. It still leaves him panting and sweaty.

"Have you been drinking?" she asks with a frown.

He stares at her. "What?"

"Water," she clarifies. "Have you been able to keep any fluids down?"

If he tells her the truth she will try to get him to drink, and the thought of swallowing _anything_ is making his already unhappy stomach do bad things.

"Yeah," he says.

He knows he needs to hydrate, and he _will_ drink, just not right now. He'll drink when he has rested a bit.

"Liar." She drapes her jacket over him and tucks it in around him. It's still warm from her body. "But extraction is half an hour away, so I'll let the poor bastards on medical duty fight you on that." She gets to her feet and plants herself on one of the crates. "Sleep, Barton. I've got your back."

*' *' *'

Clint wakes later, with his stomach roiling and nausea climbing up his throat. He rolls to his side and clears the ratty couch by a hair as his stomach evicts what little is in it. He whimpers pitifully, because the pain digs its claws into his side with renewed ferocity and it feels like he's being torn open, like jagged blades are working at the edges of his wound, widening it until his whole side feels like nothing but a wide expanse of exposed muscles and nerves and soft organs. He presses his shaking hand against his side with a moan. When he lifts it he can see wetness glistening on his fingers in the dark.

In the dark.

It had been light, but now it's dark again.

"Natasha?" His tongue feels clumsy, too big for his mouth. He lifts his head and tries to focus on the room around him, tries to make sense of things.

It takes a long time for him to realize that Natasha's jacket is gone and the lantern that had been lit sits dormant and dark on the floor. The curtains are open. The house around him is silent. She isn't there.

"Nat?"

It takes even longer to realize that she never was.


	4. Chapter 4

Easy Money

Clint sprints down the street and tries to hold the white cardboard box steady in his hands. He feels like laughing, because, man, he's in a good mood. He's in a _great_ mood. It's his birthday and he's heading to Mike to hang out and play Nintendo, and to top it off, Clint has cake. Not a real birthday cake, just two cupcakes, one for him and one for Mike, but they're the real deal, not the spongy ageless things that live in crinkly plastic on the shelves of gas stations or Seven Elevens. It'll be a good birthday. He brutally silences the part of his mind that wants to remind him that this will be the first birthday without Barney, because he can't think of his brother without feeling a sharp phantom pain in his arm and a duller one in his chest. So, he doesn't. Or at least, he tries not to. He's not very successful, some days he's in pain all the time. Hanging out with Mike helps. Keeps his mind off what happened.

He slides the box under the chain link fence that blocks off the alley, then backs up a few steps and uses the running start to leap halfway up the fence. He pulls himself up and over and lands next to his box. Home free. It's another ten seconds before the fat security guard comes huffing around the corner after him, and Clint waits patiently. The guy is bright red in the face, breathing like he's been running a marathon at sprinter speed, even though he has just chased Clint for two blocks. He all but stumbles up to the fence and thrusts a beefy arm through the gap between the gates, but Clint has placed himself _just_ out of reach, and looks down at the sausage fingers as they wiggle in their attempt at reaching him.

He shakes his head sadly and looks up at the guard. "So close, dude."

"I'm gonna kill you," the guard wheezes.

Clint grins. "Yeah. Good luck with that, Tubby." He leaves the frustrated guy foaming at the mouth with anger.

"You're dead, kid," the guard screams behind him. "You hear me? Dead!"

Clint flips him off over his shoulder and laughs at the barrage of abuse that follows him down the alley as he takes off jogging.

Mike lives some ten blocks down. He's cool. And funny as hell. He likes a lot of the stuff Clint does, even though he's a few years older. Clint is a little more wary of Mike's landlord, a huge guy who goes by the name Jagger. He runs a stable of girls out of the back of a Chinese restaurant, and it hadn't taken long for Clint to figure out that Mike doesn't just rent a room from Jagger, he works for the guy. Clint is in no position to judge, money is money after all, and apparently it's easy money. At least that's what Mike had said with a shrug when Clint had gathered the courage to ask about it. That it's not that bad. That he doesn't even have to touch them most of the time, just be there and be rutted against. It's like they humped poison ivy and have an itch, Mike had explained with a grin and a few lewd movements of his hips against Clint. Half an hour, tops.

Clint had felt vaguely embarrassed, but too curious to stop himself from asking if Mike did, you know, _other_ stuff, and Mike had laughed and said maybe Clint should try it someday if it fascinated him so much. Clint had told him to fuck off, and they'd shoved good-naturedly at each other for a while before heading downtown armed with two backpacks of aerosol spray paint cans. Clint is nowhere near as good as Mike, but his tag is getting to be pretty kick-ass.

He looks over his shoulder, double checking that Mr. Rent-A-Cop hasn't found some way around the fence, but he sees nothing and slows to a walk. His and Mike's tags are scattered on a few concrete walls, but they mainly work away from the immediate area. You don't piss where you live Mike had said, and Clint agrees. He never 'procures' goods close to home.

He's been looking forward to tonight for a week, ever since Mike said he could come by and they would hang out and celebrate his birthday together. Beats staring at walls and watching PBS. And having Mike as a friend has its perks. Sure, he lives in a distinctly rough neighborhood, but he always has food and snacks in his room whenever Clint comes by, he has money to get the newest comics when they come out, and he has a Nintendo console with a load of games. Best of all, he doesn't mind sharing these things with Clint.

This time Clint will bring something to share, too. Stolen cupcakes, sure, but chocolate is chocolate as far as Clint goes. As he rounds the last corner, he spots two of Jagger's girls heading out of Mike's building. Lucy and Lotus. Twins. They're nice, but high off their heads just about every time he sees them. He thinks they were probable real pretty at one point, but now they look every inch the crackhead hookers they are. Lotus lifts her hand in a wave. Clint returns it. Mike doesn't work every night like they do. _When I feel like it_ , he had told Clint. _When I want money._

Three months ago the idea of doing something like that had never even entered Clint's mind, but then he'd gone and gotten himself all cut up by a sharp metal edge of a crate at the warehouse he works at (unless OCPD or the USDA or INS or whoever knocks on the door, then he's the owner's son who's just hanging out, because employing underage labor is cheap, but it also means a shitload in fines if it's discovered). The cut had required stitched and a tetanus boost, which meant that every cent of his rent money, and then some, had been spent, and the old hag from whom he rents the shitty little basement room didn't want to even consider giving him an extension, even when Clint had showed his bandaged arm.

He hasn't had anything to sell for a long time, and it had been Mike who had pointed out that there are always dudes who want to get freaky with cute guys. Clint had refused, then thought about it for about two days, before awkwardly asked Mike if he could help him find a 'date', one who just wanted to… rub. That sounded like something he could do.

So Mike had asked Jagger, who reluctantly had agreed to set Clint up with a guy. The first time had been weird, but pretty uneventful. Clint had felt uncomfortable and a little scared, but the guy hadn't even said hello, just walked into the motel room and zeroed in on Clint. He hadn't even taken his jacket off, just grabbed Clint and started grinding, fully clothed, against his jeans clad hip. Soon, the guy had been panting and muttering dirty words that had made Clint blush, even though he was used to the jargon back at Carlson's. But it had been pretty quick, minutes rather than the half hour Mike had spoken of, and then the guy had been gone and Jagger had been there in the doorway asking if he was okay. As they walked out of the room he had given Clint a bundle of money. Mike had been right. It was easy money.

What he'd made that night hadn't covered the rent, and Clint had gone on two more 'dates'. It hadn't been… yeah, it hadn't been too bad, a bit disgusting with the grinding and the grunting, but he walked out of there with money in hand, always doled out by Jagger. He had paid the rent and that had been it. No more.

That was the plan, anyway, but life sucks, and a month down the line Clint's had emptied out his meager financial buffer once again by being stupid and getting caught lifting a porn mag and having to bribe his way out of a trip to the closest precinct and a subsequent trip to a CPS office. Luckily the owner of the store was a cheap bastard, and was willing to accept Clint's fortune of sixty-six dollars as compensation. It left Clint without money for food, and while soup kitchens and bartered-for coupons keep him alive, there's more to life than staying alive. He tried to get an advance from the warehouse manager, but nope. After spending a week trying to find a second job and not succeeding, he had caved in. Being a scratching board for losers with an itch hadn't exactly been what he had envisioned for himself, but eating is kinda high on Clint's list of important things, so he had asked Mike for more jobs.

He works maybe twice a week these days. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It's okay. A few weeks ago a guy had offered him fifty bucks extra to rub his naked cock against Clint. Clint had taken the money and pocketed it, hadn't told Jagger (because he will take a lot of it) and lets the guy whip it out and hump his still jeans-clad leg. It's a bit messier, but that's what Laundromats are for, and he sure as hell isn't going to turn down fifty bucks. It's fine.

Jagger told him that day that he's a natural and that people are starting to ask for him. Clint had shrugged and sorted it in with the rest of the lies Jagger tells him. Like how Clint gets half of the money Jagger personally collects from Clint's customers. Yeah, _right_. But it's enough that Clint can pay the rent and buy food, so it's okay. He's not going to do this for long, anyway. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but despite the almost-certain insincerity of Jagger's words, it feels pretty good to have someone tell him he's good at something. He hasn't been good at something since Carson's. He misses his bow and the way the world had shrunk down to that little bull's eye when he stood in the ring and fired arrow after arrow into that little bull's eye. He misses the way people had applauded and cheered. He misses the way people had _seen_ him.

He doesn't sort the johns in to the 'people' category. They're a mean to an end. Some johns don't pay him any attention at all, he might just as well be a piece of furniture. Then there are the ones who watch him so intently it freaks him out a little. _Be careful_ , Lucy had whispered to him that first time he'd gone with Jagger. _Don't trust_ _anyone_. But he's got Mike and Jagger looking out for him. Mike tells him which customers to be wary of, which ones are likely to tip big if he moans loudly, if he acts younger than he is, if he talks dirty, if he lets them kiss him. Jagger always stays right nearby, waits for him right outside, so Clint doesn't feel too scared. They have his back.

Rush hour is in full swing and the streets are packed with traffic. A cab driver honks angrily as Clint slips across the street right in front of him. Clint gives him the same salutation he gave the security guard. The cabbie hits the brakes hard enough that the tires squeal and makes a move towards the door handle, but just then the driver behind him lays on the horn. Clint sees through the windshield how the cabbie glares in the rearview mirror and curses, but he starts rolling again. The one-second adrenaline surge is a thrill, is excitement and fizzing soda water along his nerves. With a grin he bows to the horn-happy guy in the red Ford pickup as he passes.

Two blocks more, and he arrives at his destination. Cherri - whose real name is Trenda Mae - stands out back smoking when he cuts across the deserted lot next to the building that houses Jagger's home base and Mike's small studio apartment.

"What are you doing here?" she asks bluntly.

"Meeting Mike."

"You should leave."

Cherri has never liked him, and he doesn't need her or anyone else to tell him what he should or shouldn't do. He's his own man, makes his own decisions. "Why?" he challenges.

When she doesn't answer, Clint snorts darkly and pushes past her. "Mind your own business."

He is almost out of reach when she reaches out and grabs a hold of his arm. He almost drops the box with cupcakes. "I'm telling you," she says, "if you have any brain in that head of yours, you'll walk away and never come back."

Clint yanks his arm free. Cherri is still Jagger's favorite, but she clearly sees him as competition. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he huffs.

She watches him for a few seconds, then drops the cigarette to the ground, crushes it carefully under her knee-high boot. "Yeah," she says, and her voice sound weird, low and tired and not a trace of the venom he's used to from her. "I really would." She pulls her jacket closer around herself and heads out. Clint hears her high heels clicking down the street towards the corner.

The stairwell that leads up to the second floor is dark. The lone light bulb in the ceiling has been broken, and only the base remains, still screwed into the socket. It smells like cat piss and greasy Chinese food in there. Clint takes the stairs two steps at the time and puts Cherri out of his mind. He's hungry, and the thought of biting into the chocolate that's hiding inside his box makes his mouth water.

He lifts his hand and knocks on the door twice, and hears Mike shout at him to come in.

"Hi," Clint says. "I brought cake. I mean, not _cake_ cake, just cupcakes," he hurries to add. He closes the door behind him.

Mike is rifling through a couple of wallets on the table until he finds what he's looking for and pulls out a credit card. "Great, great," he says.

Clint sets the box on the table and goes to plant himself on the couch in front of the TV. It's already keyed up to Super Mario Bros 3. He's just about to sit down when he notices something. Mike is not wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt. He's dressed up in a skin-tight shirt and even tighter black pants. Doc Martens. Black eyeliner, not too much, just a hint of smokiness. Fuck me-eyes and fuck you-boots, that's what Jagger calls that combo.

Did he forget?

"You going out?" Clint asks, and keeps his voice carefully neutral, because it sure looks an awful lot like Mike is on his way out. Working or clubbing. But maybe Clint is wrong out that. Maybe Mike just got back from somewhere. He was the one who suggested they spend Clint's birthday here, after all. He wouldn't forget, would he?

"Meeting up with Henry Gault in a few," Mike says.

He did. He forgot.

Clint shuffles his feet and tries to find some way to remind him that doesn't make him look like a whining kid. "I thought we were going to… You know, hang out."

Mike looks up. "Aw, _man_. I completely forgot. We'll hang out some other day. You don't mind, do you?" He gives Clint a smile that seems a little strained. He has a black eye, Clint notices, carefully hidden under expertly applied makeup. Cherri no doubt helped cover it up.

"Sure. Yeah, It's cool. I don't mind," Clint says even though disappointment burns hotly inside.

Mike all but runs towards the door. As he puts his hand on the doorknob he looks over his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says.

"It's cool," Clint says again, and tries to make it sound true.

"I'm _really_ sorry," Mike says again, and there's that tension again, overlaid with something dark and distressed that makes Clint's every instinct rear up and flag for danger.

"Mike…?"

Jagger opens the door before Mike can do it, and Mike backs up one, two, three steps. Jagger's eyes land on Clint and he grins for a moment. Without taking his eyes off Clint he shoves at Mike and points at the door. "Get out," he orders, and Mike slinks out without a word.

Clint sees him mouth 'sorry' again, just before Jagger closes the door on him.

"Well, seeing that your evening plans have evaporated, how about earning some money? I got a guy lined up."

Clint stuffs his hands into his pockets, pulls his shoulders tight. He doesn't want to go with anyone tonight. He doesn't want to do _anything_ but head home now that Mike blew him off and there's no one to share cake with or hang out with.

"Nah," he says. "I think I'll just go back home."

"He asked for you personally."

"Not interested." Clint gathers the box from the table and moves towards the door.

Jagger steps in front of him. "It's good money."

"I'm not interested," Clint snaps, because he just wants to go home and sleep and wake up tomorrow and forget the entire day.

The backhand across his face catches him off guard. He drops the cupcake box as he stumbles backwards, just barely managing to stay on his feet. He presses his palm against his stinging cheek. Jagger's eyes are dark and dangerous, and Clint takes a step back, but Jagger catches him by the arm.

"I'm done coddling you, so you better listen good, boy. You _are_ going to sit here and wait for him. You _are_ going to drop that fucking virgin act of yours, and you _are_ going to make him a very happy man. If I hear anything else you'll be sorry. Understand?"

Clint tries to pull out of the painful grip, but Jagger is strong and large and he backs Clint across the floor until the back of his knees hit the bed and he sits down heavily. Jagger releases him, and his voice goes even and calm again. "I would hate to have to send Mikey-boy to Jack Kelley to make up for all the money I'm going to lose if I have to tell this guy no".

Clint's stomach does something decidedly unpleasant. He knows Kelley by name and reputation. He's a return customer. The guy pays very well, but the girls always come back bruised and sometimes bloodied, and he heard Heather's hiccuping recount of the things he did to her. Painful, degrading, horrible things. He likes to beat. And bite. And use things.

"He doesn't do guys," Clint says, trying to find some way out of this that gets Mike off the hook.

"He will if I ask him to," Jagger says, and the look gives Clint is flinty and holds a promise of pain that Clint recognizes all to well.

"Please, don't. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Just not tonight. Please."

"You with our new friend, or Mike with Kelley. Tonight. Your choice," Jagger tells him flatly.

"Please," Clint tries again.

Jagger walks to the table and picks up the phone. He dials a number and taps his fingers on the table top as he waits. Clint doesn't want to go with this guy, because it sounds like there's a whole lot more expected of him than being a convenient surface to rut against, or a little bit of skin to paw. It sounds like he's expected to do things he doesn't want to do.

"Jack, it's Jagg—"

Clint is on his feet and at the phone in a heartbeat, ending the call with a finger on the hook switch.

"That's rude," Jagger says and looks at Clint's fingers, still on the switch.

"Please."

"Please, what? Please send Mike to Kelley?"

"He'll get hurt."

"Yes," Jagger nods. "Yes, he will."

Clint tries to come up with some argument that might get him out of this situation, but he feels cornered and trapped and hopeless and stupid. This is what Cherri had tried to warn him about, this is the pen he let himself be lead into, like a sheep to slaughter, and he suddenly wonders if Mike has been in on it the whole time, if this was their endgame all along. He wants to think that's not the case, that Mike had protested Jagger's plans and the shiner is proof of that. But he knows people lie and cheat and sell others out, why would Mike be any different?

"So, what will it be?"

When he doesn't get an answer, Jagger simply lifts Clint's finger from the button and starts dialing again.

"Wait." It takes a lot for Clint to force the word out of his mouth, but he does it. He can't be the one who sends Mike into Kelley's hell, he just can't. "What does he want, the guy who wants… me?"

Jagger shrugs. "Didn't ask."

That doesn't sound good in any way.

Clint licks his lips. Okay. He'll play along this time, then he'll take Cherri's advice and never come back. But then he remembers that Jagger knows where he lives. He has dropped Clint off a few times, and what if he comes for Clint there?

"Oh, don't look like that," Jagger tells him. "It's not the end of the world. He's not into hardcore stuff, he just gets off on fucking little boys, so cheer up. It's easy money." He picks the cupcake box from the floor and sets it on the table. It's lopsided, one corner has been dented. He pulls out a butterfly knife, flicks it open and cuts the strings that are tied around the box, then peels the lid open. He peers into the box. "Aw, you brought one for me. How sweet." He picks up one of the cupcakes and takes a bite. "Don't you go nowhere," he says through a mouthful of chocolate. "I'll be right back."

He hands the other cupcake to Clint and leaves the room. The lock clicks.

The room is silent. Clint looks around, sees the sheets of Mike's unmade bed behind him, sees the Nintendo console on the floor in front of the TV. The controllers lie with their cords neatly rolled up next to it in the cold, bluish light of the screen. He eyes the window. He could leave, climb out the fire escape, take off and never come back. He can find somewhere else to stay, it's not like he's attached to the small room in the damp basement. He could hitch a ride to Tulsa, find a better job than the meat warehouse. He could leave. But that would mean that Mike…

Clint looks down at the cupcake cradled in his hands. It's sticky from smeared frosting and smushed on one side from the tumble the box took. He puts it down. He doesn't want it anymore. He doesn't even want to see it, doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to think about how he had envisioned this evening. Stupid to make it mean so much when, really, it doesn't matter at all. This day is just a day like any other.

Clint sits on Mike's bed where Jagger put him.

The wall clock ticks away half an hour. He hears voices through the thin walls. A baby starts crying somewhere. Starts and stops, then starts again a few minutes later.

Clint looks up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He thinks next year he might just skip his birthday altogether.


	5. Chapter 5

Any minute now, Clint thinks. He slides his hands under the back of his head and stares at the brightly lit ceiling, waiting for the observation hatch in the cell door to scrape open. He doesn't know why they do it, there's a covered camera dome in the middle of the ceiling (and more cameras hidden around the room, no doubt) so he knows he's under 24/7 closed circuit surveillance, but they still check in on him in person every hour for some reason. He doesn't mind. It lets him keep track of time.

White cinder block walls. Gray ceiling. Gray reinforced door. A bed. A not-so-private alcove with a toilet and a tap. No windows. Protective custody. That's what they call it. There are an untold number of people out there who would want nothing more than to dish out some payback for what Clint did, but he's not naïve enough to think that his well-being is the only reason why he's in deep isolation in an unspecified S.H.I.E.L.D facility somewhere in the upper north east. A much bigger reason for his present accommodation is that they're trying to find out if Loki really is gone from his head. They want to make sure Clint won't turn on them again. And they want to keep him close if he does. Make it easier to put him down.

They're not alone in their paranoia. In the days since Natasha bitch slapped Loki out of his head, Clint has spent every waking moment scrutinizing everything he does, every thought, every reaction. Even eating has become stressful, because is this really what _he_ wants to eat? Or is it Loki's preference. Is _he_ really thirsty? Tired? Angry? Frustrated? He can't stop doing it, can't stop picking himself apart, and it's exhausting.

They'd gone to ground for a few days after New York, Natasha and he. She had refused to let him go back to S.H.I.E.L.D, had shut him down every time he tried to argue that he needed to be somewhere he couldn't hurt anyone. He knows she's not that naïve, she knows he's very much a high-risk item right now, and it had honestly surprised him that she had refused to listen to reason. He'd been too tired, too numb to stand up to her at first, but when he had gotten himself together a bit, he had announced that he was leaving the bolt hole they had hunkered down in since that last day, and was turning himself in. She had been unhappy with his decision, angry even, but she had let him go.

And now he's here. Locked away in an overly bright room with nothing more to do than stare at the walls. It's a nice enough cell. Not overly institutional, and the bed is actually more of a bed than a cot, so he can't complain. For about a week, they've put him through a battery of scans, tests, and polygraphs (why is beyond him, he can beat those any day of the week and they know it). He's been 'interviewed' both while lucid and while shot up with pharmaceutical cocktails that made him sick and sent him head first into high def hallucinations of fire and charred, bubbling skin, of razor claws and falling ceilings. He'd woken up in bed restraints, _again_ , dehydrated and confused, and the doctor that had administered the drugs looked genuinely apologetic for the reaction it caused.

Hadn't stopped them from giving him more, though.

He cooperates as best as he can. Most of what happened during the three days under Loki's sway is hazy to him, but for some reason certain things are absolutely crystal clear. Snippets of sound and smell and violence. Hill in the tunnels. Repelling down a rope into the depths of the helicarrier. Silently slicing through sinew and cartilage of civilians who happened to get in the way of him carrying out Loki's orders. Split-second flashes of fighting Natasha on that catwalk. Those are all horrifying in their own right, but what makes his mouth taste like ash is the memory of the rightness that had permeated everything he did. He had _wanted_ to serve Loki and his cause, the one he can't even remember now. What he does remember is that it had felt like that was what he had been born to do. It had been righteous and it had been glorious, like seeing the world in color when life had been nothing but gray-scales up to that point.

He doesn't know when he last felt that way at S.H.I.E.L.D. Total devotion to a cause. He wonders if he ever has.

His eyes itch, and he blinks at the bright lights, wishing for the tenth time in as many minutes that he could sleep. The tray of food they had delivered to his room a few hours ago sits untouched on the floor by the door. He suspects they're spiking it with something, because he's exhausted but hasn't been able to sleep for two days. Sleep deprivation will make it easier for them to trick his brain into revealing that he's still Loki's bitch, that he's a sleeper waiting to strike. Whatever they're using, it's not an obvious psychostimulant. He's been handed enough Modafinil and dexies in his sniper days to recognize the artificial alertness they provide, and this isn't it. This is something that keeps him awake but doesn't take away the tiredness that presses down on him like excessive gravity. They want him off balance.

They'll figure out that he's on to them soon enough, if they haven't already, and he's pretty sure they won't let him get away with it. Not that he thinks they'll hold him down and force feed him. The only reason they're putting it in his food instead of giving it to him directly is that they're trying another way of trying to get past his defenses. If you don't expect it, you might not recognize the signs and symptoms even if they're right there. But he does, he recognizes them. And he recognizes the strategy.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was the ones who trained him, after all.

He hears the beeping on the electronic lock, and doesn't move as the observation hatch in the cell door slide open. A few seconds later he hears it slide shut. Another hour gone by. Nine since the lights came back on after the night cycle. No telling how many more he'll spend here. Could be weeks. Months. Years.

Or minutes. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't above eliminating threats they consider unacceptable.

He's in deep isolation, has been since he arrived here. The only ones he sees are medical staff, interrogators and an ever present tactical team, armed and ready to put him down if he so much as twitches the wrong way. Some seem almost sympathetic; others don't even bother to hide their hostility. He doesn't acknowledge any of them as they walk him to and from his appointments, twice a day. He wonders if Fury has stood on the other side of those one-way mirror walls at some point during the past days. He wonders if Natasha has been told where he is. The former is probable, the latter unlikely.

The locks beep again and he turns his head towards the door. This is a departure from the pattern that has been established this far. The next Q&A session shouldn't happen until the morning. But it shouldn't really surprise him that they're shaking up the routines. Off balance, remember.

"Let's go." The leader of the tactical team motions for him to get off the bed. He is flanked by two other men, and Clint can see more in the hallway outside. They're always in full gear when they come for him. Kevlar, helmets, facemasks, gloves, the works. If the whole situation wasn't such a nightmare up it would be just a little flattering.

"Come on, Barton. You know the drill."

Clint does. He gets up and holds out his hands. He's not in a prison orange jumpsuit, and they don't go as far as putting a chain around his waist and shackling his wrists and ankles to it, but he gets the usual pair of smooth carbon fiber cuffs that slide around his wrists and tighten automatically until just shy of painful. Without another word the guards settle into a practiced configuration around him as he's herded down the hallway.

The guard station at the end of the hallway is empty. As they pass, Clint sees the half-full mugs of coffee, the computer screens showing his cell, and he is immediately wary. That's the first time it hasn't been occupied by at least two people. Mixing things up to unbalance someone is one thing, but certain patterns aren't broken in a place like this. Especially not patterns like that. He doesn't show a reaction, doesn't look around, but he scans the guards around him from the corner of his eye, scans the corridor, and when they turn left where they have turned right every single time this far, there is no doubt in his mind that something is about to go down.

He's right. He's not two steps past the threshold of the room that's their destination when he gets a brutal rifle butt to the back, and the impact and pain drives him to his knees. The door closes with a heavy, resounding bang.

 _Took them long enough_ , he thinks as they fan out around him, eyes hard and unforgiving over the edges of their masks. A moment later, he's grabbed by the back of his shirt and hauled up, shoved forward. He stumbles against the far wall, and for a moment he remains there, cuffed hands flat against the painted cinder block wall, his back to the room.

"Fury says you deserve the benefit of a doubt," one of them says, contempt clear in his voice. "I don't. I think the only thing you deserve is to be put down like a dog."

The voice sounds faintly familiar, but Clint can't place it. It could be anyone of the hundreds and hundreds of people who have crossed his orbit over the past fifteen years. They might have met in Shield barracks, in institutional cafeterias, briefings, debriefings, hallways or safe houses. He turns around. The situation assessment is automatic. Four standing in a half-circle around him, just out of arm's reach. Two hanging back a few steps, M4 rifles pointing at the floor, safeties off. Height, weight, muscle mass, posture. Five men, one woman. Right handed, right handed, right, right, left, right. Sheathed tactical knife times three, four Colt 911s, two HK P30s, none of them out of their holsters but every single snap closure is open and ready for action. He spots brass knuckles. A Shield stunner.

"Do you know how many are dead because of you?" The man doesn't speak loudly, but his voice is flinty. His eyes are deep brown. Unforgiving.

Clint doesn't answer, but yes, he knows. He knows the exact figure. One of the interviewers find grim pleasure in updating him about the number of casualties that still keep rising, day by day.

A fist gives his shoulder a brutal shove, and his back hits the wall. He's too close to it, has limited room for movement, but he doesn't move.

Another shove. "Do you even care?"

He works at keeping his face passive. There's no use trying to explain or defend himself. These guys know full well what Loki did to him. He also knows it doesn't mean a damn thing to them. They want blood. His blood. He glances up at the camera in the corner. There is no light blinking, no power indication. Conveniently out of commission.

The guy must see his glance, because he points at the camera. "See that? A few minutes ago this whole section suffered an unexpected system wide camera malfunction. Nothing is being transmitted. Nothing is being recorded." He takes a step closer. "Fury can't save your ass now. Romanoff can't save you. Captain fucking America can't save you. And even if Coulson could save you, even if you hadn't gotten him killed, he wouldn't. He died because you let that bastard in." He leans closer into Clint's space, challenging him wordlessly to try something, but Clint refuses to take the bait. He won't be the one to kick this off. "How does it feel to know Coulson bled out knowing you betrayed Shield? Betrayed him?"

Clint jaw clenches before he can stop the tell. They're wrong. Coulson knew he didn't do any of it willingly. Natasha had assured Clint of that, over and over, that first night, and Coulson wouldn't have turned his back on Clint for something that was forced on him, for something that wasn't his fault. Clint knows that, he _knows_ that, refuses to think something else, because that would be an insult to the man Coulson had been. Despite the collateral damage Clint had wreaked he knows Coulson would have made sure he was okay, that he was treated fairly, because Phil had always looked after him, and fuck them for trying to make Coulson into something he wasn't. He wouldn't give up on Clint, he would keep him, because Clint didn't mean to, didn't want to, couldn't stop it, and he doesn't deserve to be sacrificed for it. That's what Coulson would have told him.

Clint just wished the words didn't ring so hollow in his head.

"Get on with it," he tells them hoarsely, because he knows how this is going to end, and he just wants it over with.

He doesn't have to say it twice. They move in from two directions at the same time, and Clint raises his hands in front of his face and lets them come.

'* '* '*

The nurse doesn't say anything about the eye swollen shut or the split lip when she checks in on him later that night.

Neither does Clint.


	6. Chapter 6

Four days later, the door to Clint's cell opens and it's Fury standing there. Clint sees his eyes narrow and knows he spotted the split lip and the barely fading bruises on his face.

Fury steps in, leaves the door open behind him. No tactical team is escorting him. "What the hell happened to you?" he demands.

Clint stiffly slides his legs off the bed and gets to his feet. "Walked into a door," he says, and Fury pins him with a hard, long look that reminds him why a lot of people are scared shitless of this guy.

"Wanna try that again, Agent?" Fury's voice is pitched dangerously low.

"Walked into a door, _Sir_?"

Fury glares at him, but Clint is just too tired to be all that intimidated. "With me," Fury snaps and walks out the door.

Clint doesn't move for a moment, uncertain what this means. Getting out of the cell obviously, but then? Is he being released from custody or is Fury coming in person to escort him somewhere he won't come back from? Some kind of strange show of respect for the years Clint has put in, or out of respect for Coulson somehow. Clint knows the two men have a history, and that Fury knows that Delta was always more than a STRIKE team to Coulson.

"Don't have all day, Barton," Fury barks from the hallway, and Clint trails after him.

His boots stand outside the door, a black S.H.I.E.L.D. jacket lies folded on top of them. Fury leads the way to the helipad, and a few minutes later they're in the air. The helicopter makes a large circle around the squat, unremarkable building, and that's the last Clint sees of it.

Twenty minutes in, Fury shoves a headset against his chest. Clint slips it on.

"You got anywhere you wanna go?" Fury's voice is tinny. "It's probably best that you don't—"

"I know." Clint turns his head, looks out at the lush greenery that pass below.

"Not just yet." Fury sounds uncharacteristically apologetic.

"It's fine. I have a place."

D.C. is where he's officially stationed, and even though he always stays at the compound when he's in town, he keeps a crash pad in Germantown. He's had it for years and used it maybe three times. Natasha scoffs at the waste of money, paying rent every month when he's never there, but he doesn't want to get rid of it. And besides, it's not like she doesn't have a place or three across the country. Now he's happy he didn't listen to her. He wouldn't want to hole up in some motel until he could get this situation sorted out. He just has to get his hands on a car, his go bag, his phone.

He can feel Fury's eyes on him, the intensity of them a dull pressure against the side of his head.

"It's fine," he repeats.

'* '* '*

It's not fine, but he lives.

'* '* '*

Weeks pass. One month. Two. Three.

It's a devastatingly pretty day. Blue skies, crystal clear air without a hint of haze, but the edge in the air speaks of fall well in the making. Clint pulls his jacket closer around himself as he makes his way down the path. The trees aren't bare yet, greens still mix with flaming reds and gold, and it's easy to see why people wax poetic about fall in Vermont.

He glances at the note in his hand, at the plot number written there, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket. Some graves that he passes are old and have been left more or less to their own devices, with dried grass the only thing adorning the small space. Some are newer. He passes one covered by a mountain of recently wilted flowers. Whites and pale pinks. What little he sees of the ground beneath them is dark, newly disturbed.

It's a nice cemetery, not one of those wide open, barren ones with nothing but sunburnt grass and asphalt. It's older, with tall trees and winding paths that don't allow for car traffic beyond a few central roads. Clint turns right. Next to an adjacent path, an older woman pulls weeds out from in front of a headstone. Clint hears her humming quietly as she works. The plot is already neat, but she picks at it, evens the dirt with her fingers. There's a pot of red petunias waiting to be planted by her side. She looks up and when their eyes meet, she nods with a kind smile. He returns it, and hopes it doesn't look as colorless as it feels on his lips.

He keeps walking, making his way towards plot G34:2.

The headstone is exactly what Clint expected. Name, date of birth, date of death. Nothing else. Plain. Timeless. It's the first time he visits. Natasha has been here at least twice, and both times she asked if he would join her. He had said no, dreading his own reaction, fearing the cruel things inside that still threaten to eat him alive every day, but now that he's here, they're curiously quiet and still.

Three months. Some days it's a miracle he even makes it out of bed. Not that he has much he actually needs to get out of bed for. He's still grounded. No defined date of return. His life is a cycle of re-evaluations, shrink sessions, too little sleep and too much alcohol. Natasha supports him as best as she knows how to. Her support usually consists of telling him to cut it out when he gets too broody and dark, and dragging him out of bed even when the hangover is doing its best to kill him. It hasn't been easy on her, either, but they handle most things in life differently, very differently, and he thinks she's at a loss to what to do with him.

He hadn't stayed long in Germantown. Two and a half weeks, then he had left the metropolitan area and headed south. Not too far, three hours and some change down into Virginia. He still drives dutifully to D.C. every week for check-ups. Now he's renting an old house in the mountains. It's far from the nearest town, his closest neighbor over a mile and a half away. Natasha had rolled her eyes and called him a walking cliché. The whole traumatized-soldier-hiding-from-civilization-in-the-wilderness thing is so overdone she had said, but she had climbed into the car without being asked and later that first night had helped him unpack the two boxes he had brought.

And speak of the devil.

He hears step behind him, muted against the grass, and Natasha steps up next to him. Apparently she changed her mind about waiting in the car. She's been here before, has asked him twice if he would come with her. He'd said no both times. She slides her arm under his and the two of them stand there, side by side, looking at the clean, sparse lines of Phil Coulson's headstone.

Clint has no idea why Coulson was buried in Vermont, but apparently it was in his papers that if he died on the job, he didn't want to be buried in Arlington. Clint had asked Natasha if she knew about any Vermont connection that would explain it, but she didn't. Who knows, maybe Coulson just picked it because it was pretty. Maybe he didn't pick it at all, maybe some nameless, faceless person in HR did.

The muted crunch of gravel under shoes is heard, and from the distance, the direction and the tread, Clint knows it's the woman down the path leaving. As he listens to her steps fade away, he wonders distantly if he will ever get to the point where she seems to be, where he can be at ease here, where this place can become something more than just a reminder of what they lost. It seems impossible.

He shoves his hands deeper into his jacket. Despite the early morning sunlight that slants across the grass, he feels cold to the bone. His fingertips slide across the car key, then touch something else, something smaller. He fingers jingle the loose coins for a few moments before pulling one out.

The dime is old. Tarnished and dark.

He thinks, ' _just like us_ '.

Clint has never been in the regular military, neither has Natasha, but they both served with Coulson. Together the three of them served something larger than their respective countries, they served to make the world a little better. A little safer. Coulson always believed they made a difference, and Clint works hard at doing the same.

He places the dime on the top of the headstone, covers it with his hand. The stone is smooth and cold under his fingers, and his throat is so tight it hurts. Natasha steps up next to him, pauses for a moment, then reaches past him and carefully places a dime of her own next to his.

She rests the side of her head against his shoulder as he loses the fight against the heat that floods his eyes. He wipes the back of his hand across his face and tries to control his breathing, tries to keep it measured and steady, but it comes out in a short, shuddering sob. He sucks in a shallow breath, holds it until his lungs burn, then lets it out. Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Again. In. Count to five. Out.

He feels Natasha match the cadence.

'* '* '*

They don't linger in Vermont, they get in the car and start driving south again. Clint is exhausted and falls asleep in the passenger seat before they're even ten miles down the road. He sleeps for almost two hours.

It takes them just about nine hours to reach D.C., and they stay the night at Natasha's place. Clint fully expects her to stay in the city, but she seems reluctant to let him leave the next morning, and eventually she proclaims that she'll be joining him for the weekend.

When they reach the highlands, the temperature drops below freezing, and last half mile up the mountain that is the reason Clint got a four-wheel drive car. When they pull up in front of the house, they find Fury leaning against a dark SUV. He stands up from his half-slouch when they pull up.

Clint cuts the engine with a sinking feeling.

"Barton. Romanoff," Fury says by way of greeting when they get out of Clint's car. It's cold enough that his breath clouds in the air.

"Fury." Natasha's voice is neutral, but even four feet away and in this temperature, Clint feels the permafrost spread around her. He knows Fury does, too. She is angry with him. Has been ever since Clint was released from custody.

Clint just nods in return. "Out enjoying the fresh air?"

He knows full well Fury isn't here for the air. Clint hasn't been officially sacked yet, but he has felt it waiting just behind the corner all this time, and when he sees the S.H.I.E.L.D. document folder resting behind Fury on the roof of the SUV, he knows that corner is now history.

"I get out far too rarely, so I figured I'd take the opportunity." Fury nods at the derelict house. "You couldn't find anything rattier?"

"Wanna come inside?" Clint doesn't really want to play host to Fury, but he doesn't want to have to read what's in that folder, either. Not yet.

"No, I'm not staying long." Fury reaches behind him and grabs the folder. He hands it to Clint who stares at the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the front cover, unwilling to take it, but Fury gives it an impatient little shake.

"What is it?" Clint asks. If those are his walking papers, he'd much rather Fury just told him. Straight out.

"Just take the damn file, Barton."

Clint reluctantly takes it. He flips it open. Medical evaluations from after Loki, a few reports signed by Clint and co-signed by Natasha, the requisition Clint handed in for an upgrade to the target practice system before everything went to hell, a bullshit grievance that had been filed against him, dated just around the same time as the requisition. He shakes his head. Jesus Christ, what did Fury do, collect every last piece of loose paper he had on Clint, eager to get rid of both him and the rest of his mess?

"Remember that door you walked into up at Northbrook?" Fury's voice sounds far too casual, and Clint's fingers pause in their search for the termination papers he is sure are in there. In the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha's eyes narrow a fraction.

"What about it?" he asks, wary.

"Took me a while to find the fucker," Fury says, "but I did."

Clint's fingers tighten on the folder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Fury leans forward and a few seconds later he pulls a paper from the bottom of the smallvpile in the folder. He places it on the top and taps it with his finger.

A paper with six photos, six faces, police lineup style.

Clint's breath doesn't quite catch, but his lungs suddenly feel smaller. He glances up at Fury, then back at the photos. It must be the six guards who beat the shit out of him, there's no other way of interpreting what Fury just said. He scans them quickly. The relief of not recognizing any of them is relief on a scale he hadn't even realized existed. Only two of them had spoken, and the possibility that people he knew, maybe even considered friends could have been among the other four had eaten at him ever since. In this case, ignorance had been anything but bliss.

He reads the three short sentences that are written under each photo. _Dishonorably discharged. Charges: Aggravated assault. In custody._ He flips the page over and finds four more photos. These ones he recognizes. His two nurses. Two doctors. _Disciplinary hearing pending._

Natasha snatches the folder from Clint's hands, runs her eyes quickly down the first page, then the second. Her eyes go cold. She always did catch on quickly.

"Fun fact," Fury says, "our audio is independent on the video system. Once I knew what I was listening for, it was easy to hear that fucking door wasn't hanging right on its hinges. I can't stand shoddy craftsmanship, so I fixed it." He rounds the car and pulls the driver door open. "And now, because I'm freezing my balls off, I'm gonna get the hell off this depressing mountain."

He gets in the car and the engine growls into life. He makes a sharp three-point turn in the small front yard before coming to a stop next to them. The driver side window slides down and he leans out. "Let me know if you have any preference where to ship the scraps," he tells Clint.

Natasha steps forward. "I have a few suggestions."

"Nope, nope, nope, that's Barton's privilege."

Clint opens his mouth to tell him "Thank you", but he's not sure his voice won't do something stupid like wobble, so in the end he just nods as the tinted windows slide shut.

He watches Fury's SUV make its way towards the bigger road, when Natasha smacks the folder against Clint's chest. He fumbles to catch it when she lets go.

"If I can't pitch them to him, I will pitch them to you."

"Sure, just bring 'em," he says, because it's a proven and strategically sound approach to go along with Natasha when she's pissed off. And she is. With _him_ now. Because he didn't tell her.

He looks over his shoulder and sees the last glimpse of Fury's brake lights. "Guess I still have a job."

Natasha is already heading towards the door and the warmth inside. Clint grabs their bags and follows. He knows he won't take her up on whatever watery tomb or landfill she's about to suggest for his tormentors, but he'll listen, because it will make him feel better to hear her describe in exquisite detail what she wants to do to them.

It's good to be reminded that he has someone who cares enough to want to hurt those who hurt him.


End file.
